


Trust Ain't a Dirty Word

by ForAllLove, whereverigobillygoes



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Allusions to Period-Typical Racism, Developing Relationship, Equal-Opportunity PTSD, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Unfortunately Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 19:58:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15893073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForAllLove/pseuds/ForAllLove, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereverigobillygoes/pseuds/whereverigobillygoes
Summary: Since meeting Goodnight, Billy's carefully-maintained walls have started to crumble one by one. It's terrifying — and might be just the sort of thrill he's been seeking.Art bywhereverigobillygoes, who understands the meaning of summer.





	Trust Ain't a Dirty Word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [28ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/28ghosts/gifts).



> [28ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/28ghosts) knows this story as "Sad Beard."
> 
> Check back later for a Tumblr-rebloggable version of [whereverigobillygoes'](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereverigobillygoes) playful art!

So far, riding with Goodnight Robicheaux was nothing like Billy expected. Here was a hunter who forfeited his bounty in exchange for companionship, a tired old man with a boyish crooked smile, shy and jumpy as a hare yet content to gab for hours for the joy of sharing his thoughts with a living soul, capable of wriggling out of the demands of any man… yet utterly helpless when trapped between two demanding horses. Billy had spent many an evening like this one, cross-legged on his bedroll while he worked the snarls out of his hair with his fingers, listening to Goodnight make a fool of himself.

“Only the finest for you, _cher_ ,” he cooed behind Billy somewhere, likely sneaking bits of dried apple to his Adeline. Billy had thought he and Goodnight might eat them, but this was an entertaining alternative. An impatient whicker, then— “There you are, I wouldn’t forget about you.”

“Are you spoiling my horse again?”

“…It is never spoiling to give a lady the attention she deserves.” Billy smiled; if Goodnight was going to be embarrassed every time he was caught, he should do a better job of sneaking. “Or a pretty name to suit her charms. Consider Sophie, or Madeleine—”

“What’s wrong with Horse?” He didn’t bother keeping the laughter out of his voice, just as he could hear Goodnight laughing as he grumbled, “ _Horse_.” It was amusing to keep Goodnight guessing when he made it so easy.

The treats for the horses ran out too soon for their liking. Goodnight made his ridiculous apologies and wandered back to the fire to mill around the cooking as though he knew what he was doing. The man could burn water if he really applied himself. The awareness of him back there made Billy’s skin prickle — not the same way a threat did, but still prompting the pretence of inattention. Though his hair was smooth now, Billy kept running his fingers through it. “Why do you call things _cher?_ ” he asked. “What’s it for?”

“Well… it’s an endearment.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Goodnight’s bootsteps made crunchy noises in the dry grass, so Billy was expecting it when he circled around to his own bedroll. He wasn’t expecting the soft touch on top of his head. He picked it out of his hair to see what it was — an oak leaf, turning brown but still flexible. While he twirled it by the stem between his fingers, Goodnight stretched out on his blanket, up on one elbow and watching him earnestly. “It’s something you say when you want to express a degree of friendliness.” He took the leaf and tucked it into Billy’s hair again. “Or affection.” A shy smile. “ _Mon cher_.”

[](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/foralllove/13573077/34453/34453_original.png)   
_[Art by whereverigobillygoes — click for fullview.](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/foralllove/13573077/34453/34453_original.png) _

Billy had never met a man of Goodnight’s persuasion who wore it like it fit him, not even at his age; where other men of a certain maturity took what they wanted wherever they could get it before their own shame caught up to them, Goodnight was by turns tentative and eager, playful and gentle, and always patient. He taught Billy the pleasures a body could feel much as he shared any of the other facts cluttering up his head — gracefully, artlessly, even unwittingly — but Billy, well, he was a quick study. He pushed Goodnight down and climbed astride him just as easy as that.

Goodnight’s smile blossomed into its full lopsided glory. “Well, then,” he said, though nothing needed saying. He always found something to say as long as he could think.

Billy could fix that.

He ground his hips down until Goodnight yelped and flailed for his shoulders. Goodnight pulled him down because he wanted a kiss, but Billy leant away to tease and bucked against him faster. “Slow— slow down, I’m not going anywhere,” Goodnight said. He was already flushed and gasping.

Billy tried a long, lazy roll instead. “Like this?”

“Better.” Goodnight thumped his head back onto the blanket. “Much better. Oh, _cher_ …”

Billy ran his hand up Goodnight’s hollow stomach over his shirt, finding a good rhythm that suited them both. Although he didn’t have much skill to speak of, Goodnight seemed to appreciate the way he tackled his inexperience like a challenge and guided him as gently as he would a… Billy started grinning at the thought. “You sure that doesn’t mean ‘horse’?”

“Billy,” Goodnight chided without any force at all. He reached up into Billy’s hair to tuck some behind his ear. “Your hair’s getting long.”

Billy grabbed a handful of Goodnight’s shaggy hair and flipped it out of his face in retaliation. It fanned out in mouse-colored waves on the blanket. With it out of the way, Billy got a good view of Goodnight’s sparkling eyes as he tried to pull him down again. This time, he went, ducking at the last moment to nuzzle up under Goodnight’s long, patchy beard.

“No, come back up here,” Goodnight whined, but Billy ignored him in favor of nipping his neck. He refused to lie still; he squirmed and kicked for a bit, trying to wriggle his hands between them to get at Billy’s trousers. “Would you just— would you let me—”

Billy caught the questing hands and pinned them on either side of Goodnight’s head.

Goodnight’s eyes went wide, then slowly slid shut. “You’re a hard man, Billy Rocks,” he said. Billy snorted. He couldn’t help it. Goodnight squinted his eyes open. “ _That’s_ what gets you?” Laughing, he twisted his hands around to twine his fingers with Billy’s. Billy came down for a kiss at last, licking into the gap where one of Goodnight’s teeth was missing, rocking their hips together a little harder.

When they parted, Goodnight spat out some of his own beard, even more tangled than usual. Billy laughed at him and got their trousers open with one hand, since he wouldn’t let go of the other one. Then, with Goodnight’s boots digging into his back, Billy hunched over him to coax out his whimpers until he quieted. They finished cleaning up before supper burned, and the leaf stuck in Billy’s hair the whole time.

All in all, it was a pleasant arrangement that he was happy to enjoy while it lasted.

* * *

The sounds of celebration flitted up the road much like the warm breeze stirring up the heavy afternoon heat — a lively promise that Billy wanted to follow. And follow they did, down to a corral just outside of town. They hitched their horses by a water trough and went to see what all the fuss was about.

Within the corral itself, a trick rider guided his horse around some barrels, twirling a lariat as the onlookers whooped it up; far more interesting were the tables of food lined up under the trees. The women there, in the spirit of the shindig, were more than generous. Billy left the small talk to Goodnight while they heaped their plates high. Then, they settled beneath a spreading oak to eat and watch the show.

While any free food was good food, Billy tucked in with especial pleasure. From the spicy roasted vegetables that made his lips tingle, to the thick tortillas laden to bursting with succulent seasoned meat, to the bacon and potatoes tangy with vinegar, each dish was more flavorful than the last and miles better than trail food. Goodnight scraped his potatoes onto Billy’s plate with a grimace. “I’m pickled enough as it is,” he said. Billy bumped his arm against Goodnight’s, more for the comment than the offering.

The trick rider changed out for something else that was apparently just as exciting. Billy didn’t see much. Goodnight must have left an impression on some of the women that they thought was deserving of two thick slices of apple pie. They wanted to stay and chat, so Goodnight obliged them with praises for crust fluffier than a cloud or some such nonsense. It was good pie, but Billy enjoyed it more after the women left them to eat it in peace. As charming as he could be, Goodnight was different when he talked to people. Billy bumped him again, and this time Goodnight chased his arm back with his own so they stayed touching.

The commotion at the corral started to ebb and flow in counterpoint with one man’s voice. Billy caught a glimpse of him through the crowd when he paused to mop his face and get the townsfolk riled. What he was drumming up excitement for, though, was hard to tell.

“I swear, your legs are hollow,” Goodnight said beside him. “Here — help me with this, I’ll never fit it all.” Billy accepted the rest of the pie absentmindedly. The ruckus was still mounting and he was curious. Goodnight nudged him. “Want a closer look?”

Billy shoveled in the last few bites while Goodnight laughed.

As they approached the corral, the man was turning in a circle, holding up a fat purse. “Last call! Any more deadeyes bold enough to take home the prize?” Goodnight pulled up short. The man spotted them and beckoned. “How ‘bout you, friend? Care to test your skill?”

Billy’s eyes fixed on that purse. A test of skill, against the marksmen this little one-street town had to offer? Goodnight took hold of his sleeve. “A mighty tempting offer,” he said, “but we’re just passing through.”

Billy knew how good he was. He could win. “I want to try.”

“Billy—”

“I’m in.” He pulled away from Goodnight and crossed the rest of the distance to the corral.

The announcer wore an awkward smile. “Well, mister, you don’t appear to have a gun on you.”

Billy hooked his thumbs into his rope belt next to two of his knives. “I have these.” A murmur and not a few laughs rippled through the gathering, but the announcer let him into the contest. He took his place in the line of competitors — a couple of farmhands, a tipsy cowboy trying to play the crowd, the blacksmith still with soot behind his ears, and a girl not more than fourteen years old. Billy had beaten worse odds with his hands tied.

They sorted out who’d be shooting at which paper target tacked onto a few hay bales, the announcer called the start, and the first round began. _Crack!_ went the firearms of his opponents; Billy flinched away from the noise. It was always louder than he thought. He shook out his shoulders quickly and buried his first knife in the target just left of the bull’s-eye.

The judges scampered in to check the targets. One of the farmhands didn’t cut paper; the blacksmith fared little better. The balance of them moved on to the second round.

Billy collected his knife as a few folks lined up rows of tin cans on the top rail of the fence — shooting from the hip, a test of accuracy at speed. The lookers-on hustled to the far side of the corral with some good-natured jeering. The cowboy mimed taking a potshot into the crowd. Some of them laughed but Billy decided he didn’t like him. His hands were getting slippery. He wiped them on his britches and focused on listening for the announcer’s mark over the hammering of his own pulse.

There went the mark. Billy’s knives flew — one, two, three, nothing fancy. Three cans hit the dirt.

The farmhand wasn’t so lucky with two of three. The cowboy never fired; he was goggling at Billy as though that was his fault. The girl had hit all of her targets. She was reloading, leant against a hay bale with intentional ease. Billy wondered, as he gathered his knives, what had made her practice that lazy stillness. It would be a shame to beat her, but he was going to all the same.

“Looks like an even match, folks — Sally and her six-shooter versus the Eastern gentleman with the knives! Let’s make this a little more interesting…” The announcer chose a tree outside the corral to pin a paper target to. It was far for knife throwing. Luckily, Billy had a good arm. He picked the best knife for the job; its sheath was coming loose, so he held it in his hand. Sally was quiet and focused as she’d always been. The townsfolk made their last-minute bets. A bead of sweat rolled down his back.

He and Sally made eye contact. He tipped his hat to her so she’d know to go first. She took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The judges ran out to the tree and reported — one finger off center.

Billy passed the knife to his other hand and back so he could wipe his palm one last time. There wasn’t much to think of. It was just throwing a knife, easy as breathing. So he threw it. Back went the judges, but he knew what they’d say. Bull’s-eye.

The townsfolk seemed at a loss for how to react. A couple of people whooped and a couple more protested. The announcer picked up the slack, stirring up cheers and applause. Billy looked for Goodnight to see if he was pleased. He couldn’t find him anywhere along the fence. He yanked his knife out of the tree. The paper target tore.

He collected his winnings, but the thrill felt tarnished now. He tipped his hat to Sally again and slipped out through the disbanding crowd to look for lodgings. Goodnight had probably gone ahead of him.

As he walked, he peeked into the purse. He’d never held so much money in his life. It jingled when he shifted it. He cut between two of the larger buildings on his way to the main street.

“That’s far enough, boy.”

Billy stopped walking. It was going to be this again.

“You’ve got something that ain’t rightly yours.”

He turned, keeping his hands free. Nothing but a handful of ten-a-penny hooligans, including the cowboy from the contest, armed though they were. “I won this,” he said.

“And we’d have won if ol’ Davis weren’t drunker than sin.”

The tipsy cowboy protested, “Aw, Mac. I could have done it if it weren’t for his tricks.”

“It was fair,” Billy insisted. “You lost.” Probably not the best idea to rile them, but it was hot, he was disappointed, and he was in no mood to go peaceably. They’d all been drinking. He could take them, guns or no guns. His fingers itched for his knives.

The ringleader shook his fist. “Now, you listen here, Chinaman, we can go about this friendly-like, or—”

“Gentlemen, what seems to be the trouble?” There was Goodnight at the end of the alley, a cigarette lazing between his lips, his rifle in the crook of his arm. Billy had never seen him carry it before.

“This ain’t none of your concern!”

“Seeing as how Mr. Rocks is my associate, it concerns me a great deal.” Goodnight shifted his rifle to his hip. He took a long drag from the cigarette, let the smoke billow around his head. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Name’s Robicheaux.”

The hooligans went still and quiet. “Goodnight Robicheaux?” one of them asked.

“The very same.”

They were looking askance at each other. They’d heard of Goodnight somehow and it had them running scared. “Begging your pardon, sir,” the ringleader said, “we didn’t know he was your man.”

Billy clenched his fists.

Goodnight waved his cigarette dismissively. “No harm done. Let’s agree that this never happened and you can be on your way.”

Sheepishly, the hooligans shuffled off down the alley, save one. “Mr. Robicheaux, I lost my week’s pay on that contest.”

“Then let that be a lesson to you against gambling outside your means,” Goodnight said, soft and light as if he was chatting around a campfire. It got Billy’s back up. “Go on, get.” The last man scuttled away after his friends.

Goodnight stayed where he was, so Billy stomped over to him. “I could have taken them,” he hissed.

Goodnight lowered his rifle. “I know you could have.”

* * *

Billy startled awake at the sound of a name he thought he’d never hear again, ready to fight, ready to run.

It was only a screech owl, ghosting away into the dark.

Billy had rolled onto his stomach on Goodnight’s bedroll during the night. Goodnight himself sat huddled against the arched root of the tree across their campsite, but Billy hadn’t heard him move there. Sloppy.

The light of the waning moon glinted off glass. Billy sat up, rubbing at his eye. “Are you _drinking?_ ”

“Whiskey,” Goodnight answered, saluting him with the bottle. “A ward against different evils.”

Billy crossed his legs beneath him. It wasn’t a cold night, but the wind was getting to him. He pulled his coat around his shoulders.

“I believe I owe you an explanation. You deserve to know the company you’re keeping.”

“This is about those men in town.” They had decided it would be safer to get some distance in case the men regrouped. Goodnight was silent while they rode and distracted while they made camp. Billy was angry the whole time. Still was, in fact.

Goodnight put the bottle down. Maybe it was empty. “You’ll notice that my reputation garners mixed reactions ‘round here. Today, it headed off trouble; tomorrow, it might bring it.”

That was normal for someone with Billy’s set of attributes. He was getting impatient, but Goodnight didn’t speak again for a long time.

“I made… something of a name for myself in the war. I was a sharpshooter. Damn good one, too. I killed men… a lot of men. Shot ‘em dead before they even knew it was coming. Quicker than a prayer.”

Billy couldn’t see anything more than Goodnight’s silhouette, motionless against the root. “How many?”

Another pause. “I don’t know.”

“You know I killed people, too,” Billy offered, though Goodnight knew that.

“Did they deserve it?”

“Yes.”

“These men didn’t. Not one.”

Goodnight didn’t say anything more. After a while, Billy lay down again, but sleep was a long time coming.

* * *

By the afternoon, Goodnight had gotten it into his head that Billy needed to learn how to shoot. He halted their travel in the trees beside a shallow stream, where he fluttered about, mumbling arguments in favor of shooting and paying Billy no mind. It would be useful for hunting. Or for self-defense, should it come to that. The empty tomato can he’d picked for a target jittered this way and that on a fallen log, his hands were shaking so hard. He must have had an almighty hangover with the way he’d been drinking last night. Billy caught the can before it tipped onto the dirt again. Goodnight went still with only his red-rimmed eyes tracking over the can, so Billy shook it to get his attention.

“I don’t want to learn this.”

Goodnight reached out to him, placating. “Billy, listen, I know you don’t want—”

“No, you need to listen.” He didn’t want to touch Goodnight’s revolver in its holster with the gator teeth. He didn’t want to think about the rifle leant against Goodnight’s saddle. He just wanted to be somewhere else right now, alone. “Knives are faster.”

“Faster than a bullet, _cher?_ You—”

“Faster than a man.” Billy crushed the can and tossed it away; Goodnight flinched. Billy didn’t look back as he stormed off.

He thrashed through the underbrush, heading upstream, until he found a spot where the creek split around a long, low island. He pulled off one boot and tipped over, thumping against a scrubby oak tree. He flung the boot into the sand. Goodnight hadn’t thought about what he wanted, just assumed he’d be happy to shoot guns and be rescued. The other boot joined the first.

He looked over his shoulder; Goodnight didn’t follow him. He shucked off his shirt and threw it over a bush. All the better. He didn’t want to talk about anything. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and plunged into the water.

The creek was cold despite the sun. Billy swam from one end of the island to the other. The water was shallow enough to stand in, slow-moving, but it felt like a fight with every stroke. He struck its surface. It made his hand sting.

He waded out onto the island’s sandy shore. There were brambles, so he couldn’t go further. He picked up one of the smooth stones littering the shore and hurled it into the creek. It plunked in with a splash that pattered onto the water’s surface in a wide ring. The next stone he threw skipped. He tried to skip the next one, then the next; by then, he got the hang of it, and all the stones after bounced along six or seven times apiece.

He didn’t stop skipping stones until his finger went through one. It had a hole bored right through the middle of it, the work of water and sand and time. It was blue, like Goodnight’s eyes. Not the same shade, just blue. Billy drew his arm back to skip it; instead, he brought his hands back together to look at it again. All of Goodnight’s rough edges had been worn down smooth, too. It was in the hunch in his spine, the hesitance of his smile, the dreadful stillness of his hands on the rifle — always he waited for what he thought he deserved. He never sought forgiveness. They were the same, then, in that regard, only Billy had never wanted to be beholden to another man.

But Goodnight freely offered him plenty. He’d been a better friend than Billy had ever had. He seemed happy to spend so much of his time explaining to Billy all of his words and ideas, even wanted to teach him how to protect himself in every way possible. If Billy had paid any attention to anyone but himself, he’d have noticed Goodnight shying away from guns long before he said anything about the war. The evenings he cleaned the rifle were quiet ones, and the following nights restless. Billy put his thumb over the hole in the stone. His own fears seemed groundless by comparison.

Here Goodnight was willing to bring himself to harm if it meant he could spare Billy from it — and Billy had thrown that back at him like so much sand.

* * *

He crept back to the camp deep into twilight, the stone tucked into his pocket.

Adeline, always the calmer of the two horses, took note of him and put her head down to graze, but Beauty rumbled a warning. Billy spoke a few low words to her until she pushed her nose into his hand. He laid his head on her side for a minute. Her comfortable horsey smell loosened the twist in his stomach a little. He wondered how Goodnight felt.

Goodnight had already turned in. He was cocooned in his blanket, curled away from Billy’s spread-out bedroll. He’d left a plate of beans on a flat stone close enough to the banked embers to keep warm. Billy brought it over to his bedroll, but he didn’t feel like eating yet. Goodnight’s breathing was shallow and hitchy, so he whispered, “You awake?”

“Yeah…” Goodnight sounded defeated the way he did after he hadn’t slept well all night. Billy’s stomach twisted up again.

“I was thinking,” he said, “that you’re right about learning to shoot.” Goodnight turned over to look at him. “We could try again, if you wanted to.”

Goodnight didn’t answer. Instead, he sat up, leant over, and kissed Billy on his cheek. Billy tipped his head to see what else he wanted to do, but he didn’t do anything, so Billy looked down at the plate in his lap. There were too many beans for Goodnight to have eaten any. Billy didn’t really expect him to have eaten. He held the plate out to Goodnight.

They wound up sharing supper with the plate on the blanket between them as the stars showed their faces one by one.

* * *

Billy didn’t stir until daylight broke over the horizon onto his face. He put his hand over his eyes and pushed himself to sitting to blink away the sun’s ghost behind the curtain of his hair. Goodnight slept on beside him. A ribbon of drool glistened in his bird’s nest of a beard. Billy was glad that he’d slept soundly; no nightmares had disturbed him, not that Billy had heard, and he looked soft and peaceful. The sunbeams made his hair glow like dandelion fluff. Billy scooted it out of his eyelashes with a fingertip.

Even relaxed, there was still a line between his eyebrows. They were tipped up in the middle like a hound dog’s. This part of Goodnight’s face didn’t show often. A shame — his eyes were a pretty color when they caught the light, framed with creases like the feathers on a bird’s wings. Usually, the only thing visible in all that hair was his snub little nose. Billy touched its tip, gently, but it made Goodnight snuffle and burrow into his sleeve. To think, everything they’d endured apart was meant to bring them to this, together, and now Billy could see his days spinning out into the horizon, and Goodnight in every one of them, until the very last. His breath stuck in his throat.

When had he gone and fallen in love?

* * *

Now that Billy had put a name to it, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The most ordinary things that Goodnight did kicked the wind right out of him. Foolish things — the way he wiped his nose or the thickness of his voice soon after he woke. It was unbearable. Their arrangement had only ever been temporary. One of these days Goodnight was going to call it quits and Billy wasn’t going to be ready unless he could pack these feelings away. He’d done it before. What he needed was some time to think. The inauspiciously named River Junction looked like a good place to get it.

It had been a month of Sundays since Billy had passed through a proper city. He had forgotten how many sounds and scents there were. And the people! The buildings had to loom three or four stories over the streets to accommodate them all. A man could lose himself in a place like this, and that was what Billy was aiming to do, as soon as he had the opportunity.

They took a room in a hotel with a double staircase that curved like the _fleur-de-lis_ Goodnight wore. The stable was down the street one way, close by for visiting’s sake, and around the corner the other way was a tailor’s shop that Goodnight declared promising. Billy’s winnings, spent wisely, would cover quite a few sorely-needed comforts.

At last, with the day’s arrangements made, Goodnight sprawled out for a nap and Billy could make his escape.

He wandered for a while from street to street, looking into the windows. It was less entertaining without Goodnight’s commentary. One shop sold ladies’ hats heaped high with veils and bristling with feathers; the prices made his stomach hurt, so he hurried to cross the street. A baker’s window flaunted towers of confections in pinks and whites, framed with garlands of purple flowers. He stood there for several minutes wondering how each sweet would taste, but he didn’t buy anything. Further down, there was a shop that sold nothing but books. Curious, Billy went inside.

The shop smelt of paper and dust. It was pleasant, even though it tickled his nose. He followed one aisle down to the back of the store. The cases were so tall that ladders leant here and there, and every shelf was bowed under dozens upon dozens of books. Billy picked one and opened it carefully. Goodnight would like it here; he’d read aloud from his two books many times, skimming over the printed letters and giving them meaning and feeling. He would be thrilled to make space for another volume or two of poetry, maybe a romantic adventure story like the tales he told from memory. Then he’d read with one leg propped across his saddle as they rode, or by the campfire of an evening, and Billy—

Billy would be alone again, after they went their separate ways. No more amused glances when other people were being rude, no more embraces even when it was too hot, no more rambling stories under sun and moon and stars. None of the things he’d reordered his life around without realizing it. He couldn’t go back to the way things were before Goodnight when the time came. He didn’t want to. He felt alive all the way down to his fingertips and toes, too much for his body to hold, and Goodnight had given him that, and so many things more, and all he wanted was to stay with him, to look after him. Billy put the book back on the shelf. If he did nothing and _let_ Goodnight leave him…

Then he had to ask him not to go, to lay out what he wanted so it was out in the open, and after that he didn’t know what he’d do even if Goodnight said yes.

Billy’s feet remembered the way he’d come and led him straight back to the hotel, up the stairs two at a time, to their door. He dropped the key — got it into the lock — opened the door to an empty room. Goodnight could be anywhere at this point. Of course he knew better than to leave a note. Billy gathered his wits — he might still be in the hotel’s saloon, there or in the restaurant next door or in the stable. Even if Billy couldn’t find him, he had to come back to the room sometime. His saddlebags were still there. In the meantime, Billy wasn’t going to sit around waiting.

He went to the saloon downstairs first. A quick walk around all of the booths turned up nothing. There was hardly anyone in there in the middle of an afternoon, a few at the tables and a few at the bar. Billy was on his way out when he heard a laugh that sounded an awful lot like Goodnight’s.

One of the men at the bar, having an animated discussion with the bartender, was speaking with Goodnight’s voice. But he couldn’t be any older than Billy, clean-shaven and neat, lounging like Goodnight, fluttering his hands like Goodnight, catching sight of him and calling to him—

For the first time in a long time, Billy fled.

He ran back upstairs, back to their room, and shut the door tight. He wasn’t sure what to think, so he thought too many things at once. Goodnight was… _clean_. He looked handsome, actually handsome for everyone to see, not just Billy because he loved him. Whatever was Billy going to say to him?

A warning knock, and then Goodnight came in. “Billy, what’s the matter? You took off like you’re running spooked.”

“You’re not old,” Billy said.

Goodnight’s lips — the pink, chapped bow of them, curled at the corners, without that unruly beard eclipsing them — parted to show his nice crooked teeth, that same uneven, gap-toothed smile that came easier every day. It made little creases in his gaunt cheeks. “Charming as ever.” His smile stayed, but his gaze slid away. “I had hoped that you would like it.”

Billy kissed him.

Goodnight stumbled back against the door. Both he and Billy reached to lock it; Billy got the key turned first and he threw it to the side somewhere. He touched Goodnight’s smooth cheeks, ran his fingers over his ears and into his hair — it was still damp and cool, soft and curling, swept back from his face. Goodnight’s arms clasped snugly around his back. He nipped Billy’s lip. Billy ducked away into his neck. “Guess you do,” Goodnight said.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Goodnight eased Billy back, even though he didn’t want to come out. “Now, what’s this all about? Go where?”

“Away.” Billy couldn’t look Goodnight in the eye, now that his eyes were plain to see. “I want you to stay with me.”

Goodnight thought about that for a moment, rubbing Billy’s arms as he did. “Billy… you know I love you,” he said, almost questioning.

Billy peeped up at him through his hair. His eyes had that desperate earnestness they got sometimes. “I thought that was just words.”

Goodnight pulled him back in then, so Billy put his face against Goodnight’s shoulder. Goodnight kissed his cheek. “I intend to stay with you as long as you want me.” Billy wrapped his arms around Goodnight’s ribs and turned his face into his neck. The feel of skin on skin anchored him. Goodnight still smelled like himself, only much cleaner, with lavender. “If ever I have to leave you, I’ll always come back. Wherever we go, we’ll be together, you hear?”

Billy nodded. Goodnight’s neck was damp, too. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he whispered.

“ _Mon cher_ …” Goodnight took Billy’s face in his hands so he could kiss him soundly. “Do you know how long it would take me to tell you?” Another kiss, then another. “Do you know how dear you are to me?”

He leaned in for another, but Billy pushed away, dropping his coat and shrugging off his suspenders as he went. He fumbled with his shirt buttons; it was easier to pull the shirt off over his head. He dropped it, too, reaching instead for Goodnight’s hands to pull him to the bed.

Goodnight was not interested in being pulled. He wanted to touch, though he hesitated, so Billy put one of his hands over his own racing heart. Goodnight stepped in closer. His touch was light, soft, his fingertips bumping over all the old scars here and there. “You’re trembling,” he said.

Billy curled his fingers around Goodnight’s sleeves. “Yeah.” He leaned in so Goodnight could put his arms around him and stroke his back.

“It’s only me.” Goodnight kissed his hair and said something else in the French that Billy hadn’t learnt yet. It sounded far too reverent. He started pulling at Goodnight’s clothes.

Goodnight followed his lead; the rest of their clothes eventually joined the pile, boots and all. Goodnight’s skin was pale and freckled. How had Billy never taken the time to uncover it before? Once they were safely under the covers, he let tentative joy guide his hands from sharp hipbones to ribs like spokes in a wheel, then further, from the crown of Goodnight’s head to the soles of his feet. Goodnight tangled up with him, murmuring little encouragements. He rubbed a thumb along the bridge of Billy’s nose. “Billy Boy,” he said, “you are the single most beautiful thing on God’s green earth.” Billy snorted damply. “You drive a man to poetry.”

“No poetry—”

“When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold not, surround us and pervade us…” Billy kicked off the covers — it was too hot for them anyway — and made to leave the bed. Goodnight rolled him onto his back; he leant over him, filling his sight. “Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom — I am silent—”

Laughing, Billy put his hands over his face. “Goody, you talk _so much_ …”

Goodnight plucked one away. He kissed Billy’s knuckles, then wove their fingers together. “He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me,” he said, drawing their hands close to his heart.

“You’re ridiculous,” Billy told him. That was his Goodnight, through and through. And Billy was his.

Oh! Billy was his!

**Author's Note:**

> Goodnight quotes from [the seventh poem](https://whitmanarchive.org/published/LG/1860/poems/83) in the 1860 edition of the "Calamus" cluster in Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_.
> 
> Unintentionally, this story is compatible with [Tunnel of Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9794573) and [A Fistful of Acorns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9265223).
> 
> Emotional research courtesy of my little star. Every atom in me has realigned to point to you.


End file.
